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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25772788">Gravity</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/hackedsaw/pseuds/hackedsaw'>hackedsaw</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Saw (Movies)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Adam didn't die Lawrence's isn't an apprentice etc etc etc, Alternate Canon, Established Relationship, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Trauma, fluffy stargazing</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 06:42:35</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,584</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25772788</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/hackedsaw/pseuds/hackedsaw</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“You know what day it is?” Adam suddenly spoke, both still observing the stars. A passing, blinking light coasted along across the sky, and Adam entertained the idea of extraterrestrials for a moment before accepting that it was probably just a satellite. When he didn’t continue, he felt Lawrence’s gaze shift to him, the weight of it settling on him and urging him to look back.</p><p>The flickering lamp post a few parking spaces down illuminated the doctor’s face, and as Adam looked up at him he decided that his eyes were way more worth looking at than the stars above.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Adam Faulkner-Stanheight/Lawrence Gordon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>49</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Gravity</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I'm always too self-critical to finish shit and I'm trying to break that habit.<br/>I was really feeling it last night and I threw this together throughout the day, so have some sappy shit.</p><p> </p><p>Critique is very welcome in the form of DMs on tumblr! @hackedsaw there as well.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Sometimes, Adam felt like he could forget.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>On nights where he could get far away from everything that happened, everyone he knew, all the bullshit stress of a day-to-day life that hadn’t felt normal for a long time. It was nights like that where he could just exist and let the vast deep blue sky bleed into him and wash him out, clear his mind, give him a blank slate and a fresh perspective for just a little bit. He felt like he was floating amongst the millions and millions of tiny lights that seemed so close when the photographer was out here, brighter than anyone could ever dream of seeing in the city and nothing that his camera could do justice. It was something he’d never quite appreciated before. Still, nowadays, he found himself seeing the value in a lot of little things that he’d never given a second thought. It was calming. Serene, even, which was never a word he’d used to describe much of anything.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He took a long drag from his cigarette, a vice that he hadn’t kicked and had no plans to, letting the smoke warm him in the autumn chill as he leaned back against the car. It was early October, his favorite season when the air was crisp and darkness fell earlier and earlier. The lot he was situated in was empty, just how the photographer liked it, reminding him of some of the “photoshoots” he and Scott would do for the former’s band way back in high school. He wanted to think that he had improved since then, the overexposed photos buried somewhere deep in a drawer at his parents’ house if his mother hadn't thrown them out by then.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This isolation, not dank and terrifying like those memories he was trying to escape, brought him a sense of clarity that he knew would be forgotten the next morning, until the next time he was out here alone with the constellations and the scent of rotting leaves.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>But of course, he wasn’t really alone — just like he hadn’t been all those months ago.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>The harsh yellow glow of light beaming out of the glass windows of the rest stop was broken by a silhouette, the shape of a human figure that was slowly growing larger. The distant click of a door swinging shut and the nearing sound of metal on concrete sent a wave of ease through Adam that no amount of nicotine ever could.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m surprised you haven’t finished that,” Lawrence’s voice broke through the ambiance, calm and collected, like the times they had first spoken. Adam looked to him as he approached with his cane, noting that the older man’s limp was improving daily, as tricky as it had been for him to get used to the prosthetic. Adam brought the cigarette back to his lips with that small careless smile of his, taking one last drag before putting it out on the bottom of his shoe and tucking the remainder behind his ear — a leftover habit from his less financially stable days.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Got a whole pack for a reason,” he muttered, tapping at the cardboard box wedged into the breast pocket of his flannel and being mindful of exhaling in the doctor's opposite direction. Lawrence scoffed and handed him a water bottle, still cold from the vending machine, which Adam was quick to take a long drink from before sighing and looking back up at the sky. Lawrence took a sip of his coffee that he’d gotten from that shitty rest stop automated “espresso” bar and rested against the car next to the younger man, a close and warm presence that Adam had come to favor over anyone else’s. When he’d taken that first photo, he’d never imagined that they would end up like this, standing together comfortably in the middle of the night miles outside of the city.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>This had become a near-weekly ritual for them. To drive out and get away, something the two did so often that they had found a favorite spot about an hour and a half from Lawrence’s new apartment, soon enough after an exit ramp that most night-time travelers drove right past. It was their place to be alone and not have to think when the hours of therapy sessions and the prodding from friends and coworkers insisted on nothing </span>
  <em>
    <span>but </span>
  </em>
  <span>thinking. They took that opportunity to be in silent understanding and comfort, a shared decompression of all of the strain in their lives.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Adam shivered and winced, the cold that he was ignoring triggering pain in his shoulder. He still wasn’t used to that. It was a grim reminder of what they went through, much like Lawrence’s missing limb, but for Adam, its mental toll was far worse than the physical. It was something he wouldn’t talk about, something that no one else would understand. No one but Lawrence.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Lawrence was quick to offer him a sip of his mocha-whatever and the younger man accepted it eagerly, savoring the feeling of the warm cup in his hands. The hot paper's burn provided some relief to his frigid fingertips that he didn't realize had turned a bit red.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“I told you that you should’ve brought a jacket,” Lawrence said, putting his hand up when Adam offered the cup back. There was a softness to his tone, one that Adam simultaneously loved and hated — not that he could ever </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> hate anything about Lawrence. He dismissed it with a short laugh, casually moving closer to the other man so that their arms pressed together. The silence returned, save for the crickets chirping away in the surprisingly well-maintained lawn of the near-forgotten rest stop.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You know what day it is?” Adam suddenly spoke, both still observing the stars. A passing, blinking light coasted along across the sky, and Adam entertained the idea of extraterrestrials for a moment before accepting that it was probably just a satellite. When he didn’t continue, he felt Lawrence’s gaze shift to him, the weight of it settling on him and urging him to look back.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> The flickering lamp post a few parking spaces down illuminated the doctor’s face, and as Adam looked up at him he decided that his eyes were way more worth looking at than the stars above. They regarded each other, neither saying another word for a little longer than Adam was comfortable. There was a bittersweetness there — one that both of them felt.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“A year ago today,” Adam continued after the long pause was too much to bear, eyes darting away as he broke their unspoken rule to never talk about that night and fixing instead on the cup in his hands. His shoulder still hurt. A year ago that night, it had still been gushing more blood than he knew he had in his body. A year ago that night, he had been sure they were both dead.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lawrence hummed in acknowledgment, somehow managing to sound bitter. He shifted his weight, and Adam felt a gentle hand push past the fabric of his flannel and rest against his chest, feeling the warmth through the thin fabric of his t-shirt. Lawrence’s thumb carefully stroked near the scar that he knew was there — the injury that, after a decent amount of grappling with guilt, both of them decided was neither of their faults. Adam laughed humorlessly, cracking slightly.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” Lawrence murmured, and Adam’s eyes shot back up to him. They were teetering into dangerous territory. The younger man could feel it — memories bubbling back to the surface as the horrible recollection of that night loomed over both of their shoulders. Somehow, though, through the grief of it all, Adam was finding it easier to focus on the man in front of him the same way he had when he was clutching onto him for dear life on that gore-stained tile floor. The horror of seeing him covered in blood and pale like death faded day by day, but the safety Adam felt when they were together remained and maybe even grew stronger.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>The Jigsaw Killer hadn’t taught Adam to appreciate life, but Lawrence Gordon sure had.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not,” Adam said firmly, clearing his throat and twisting to set the quickly-cooling espresso cup on the roof of the car before turning back to his partner. The chances of them ever having crossed paths was a million to one — they were too different, from different worlds and different mindsets. Yet, circumstances had shoved them toward each other anyway. Terrifying or not, Adam was thankful they’d had the chance to meet past the cloudy images that came to life in that old tub of developer fluid. He set Lawrence with an intense look, serious and genuine. “I’m not fuckin’ sorry at all.”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>The doctor laughed softly, some of the tension draining out of him, and he lifted his hand from Adam’s chest to cup his cheek. He leaned down to close the gap between them and the younger man threw his arms around his shoulders, letting the kiss bring him to that sense of home that he never felt with any other person.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>That room was beginning to fade. It was the two of them alone, no chains keeping them locked to dirty pipes, no corpse, no blood, and no rotting smell of death. Just the doctor and ex-voyeur-for-hire against the world, under the unending blanket of faraway celestial bodies.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sometimes, Adam wanted to forget — but he never wanted to forget Lawrence.</span>
</p>
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